Spirit and Liberty
by Gotham Knights
Summary: What happens to the passengers of the two ferries after they narrowly escape death and return to Gotham City? An improvised tag-team challenge from the imaginations of Blodeuedd, Philippa, G.A. Clive, Texas Chigger, and Sparta's Ghost!
1. Chapter 1

Spirit and Liberty

by Gotham Knights

* * *

Chapter 1

He didn't believe it, but the sign was turned to read 'open' and the lights were on, a scant three hours after. 'Open,' mouthed the sign; so he went in.

What does one do after a near-death experience? There were no rules, telling him what to do.

One of two waitresses looked up as he entered, seeming as startled as he was. He took his hands out of his pockets, palms facing her. She relaxed to see him empty-handed, but still glanced over one wide shoulder to the surveillance camera behind. Breathing a little sigh through bright, crinkled lips, she led him to a smudged table, letting fall a menu before shuffling off.

He opened the menu's grimy plastic pages, looked at line after line of nonsense.

What comes next? He knew that thousands of brains besides his own were racking themselves for the answer, at this very moment.

_I could have died_. It was hardly a complaint or a clucking admonition. It was fact. He could have been the final numeral in a death toll.

"Coffee," he called out when he saw the waitress make her slow, reluctant approach. She nodded and disappeared into the back; his eyes followed her, then lifted to the clock hanging over the kitchen doorway.

3:26 a.m. Everything was still a mess, he knew. But it was so much easier to sit in a no-name diner, pretending to be normal, listening to songs his parents used to listen to. Deaf to the sirens and panic. This strange peace would only last so long for him, after all—Dr. Drake Connelly of Arkham Asylum would soon be frantically working to restore his institution to normalcy.

Coffee arrived, and he met the waitress's skeptical, eyeliner-lidded gaze.

"I'd just like the grilled cheese," he mumbled childishly.

A quick scribble on her notepad, and again she left him to his own thoughts—which this time centered around the thought of all his colleagues, laughing as they watched him regressing into an infantile state. It was ridiculous, how he sat here, pretending his cell phone either didn't exist or couldn't be turned on. He didn't want to flip it open and see the missed calls, the frantic voicemails.

He'd made just one phonecall while on the ferry. He couldn't call his parents again, not after the hysteria he'd heard when he had told them he was evacuating the city. So he'd called his sister, in Chicago. She'd heard from his mother and was surprisingly calm.

Weather, holidays, travel, work. They'd spoken of the ordinary things and then said goodbye. He'd turned off the phone and found a seat on the back of the ferry, steeling himself for what had seemed inescapable.

He'd been primed to handle life-threatening, stressful situations. But with criminally insane patients, it had always been a matter of predicting what might happen, staying a step ahead. Never had he been forced to sit there, helpless, waiting. He'd watched the passengers around him fret and fight over what to do. He knew he was obligated as a servant of society to help. But he hadn't. Only sat there, thinking, knowing. _I am going to die. _

Wrong. He wasn't dead. Nobody on that ferry was. They might die tomorrow, next week, next year. But not yet. No, he was here, waiting for—

The golden-brown sandwich was placed before him with a sharp clink of plastic plate on linoleum table. Cheese oozing out comically from one greasy crust, almost nudging to the wan pink slice of tomato on the side.

"Thanks." His only reply was a new crinkle in the crinkling lips. Shrugging off her indifference, he added some creamer to the cooling coffee and began to eat.

It was also childlike, the way he tried to involve himself in the meal and not think about anything else. He didn't want to think about the ragged limbo he'd waited in last night, hovering between alive and dead. He didn't want to think about the hideous, cutthroat will to survive that had manifested itself in some of them. He'd heard their muttering. He hadn't been there for the final decision—to do nothing—but he had seen the ugly, Freudian ego leap out of the textbook and take hold of seemingly normal people.

The first bite of sandwich was exactly what he'd expected: pure comfort. He mechanically chewed, then swallowed, pausing to sip some of the bitter coffee.

Things were going to change, he knew. Even beyond the simple alterations he was already seeing. It was inevitable. There were no rules for these things. No laws governed them.

He finished the sandwich quickly, finished the coffee slower. He listened to the sirens in the distance, shrill against the muffled oldies songs playing on the diner radio. The TV set perched in a corner of the place was silent and black-screened—for that, he was grateful. He could pretend it was just a joke. He could pretend he'd woken up from a funny dream and decided to go get an early breakfast before going into work.

The clock read 4:11 a.m. when he drank his last refill of coffee and waved for the check. He felt a pang of regret, thinking about the frantic calls he was missing with each passing minute. Who was tending to the city's wayward butchers and psychotic deviants? Who was taking care of business as Arkham's head—the asylum's youngest and most inexperienced in years—sat in a diner and digested his grilled-cheese sandwich?

He paid for the meal in cash, taking a small pleasure in counting out the money, the currency that had wound its way through the city's veins a thousand times over before now. Standing, he shrugged into his coat and left the place, wanting to hold his breath as he re-entered the streets.

Time to be responsible. Time to be grown-up. He switched on his phone and glanced both ways before heading across the street towards his waiting car.

Safely inside the vehicle, he started the ignition and dialed up the first of his missed calls, putting on his seatbelt as he pulled out and waited to be answered.

"Dr. Lofton? Drake here. Yes, I'm back. Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

Chapter 1 was written by **Blodeuedd**.

**Philippa** will be up next, with Chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"You have reached the voice mail of Dr. Drake Connelly. I'm not able to answer my phone right now, but if you'll leave your name and—"

Cecilia Somerville punched the _End_ button with more force than necessary and stepped off of the ferry Spirit, onto which she had erroneously tracked Dr. Connelly earlier that night. Desperate to get her hands on the doctor and wrangle from him permission to interview one of his patients for her DEA investigation, she had followed his evacuation route after failing to find him at Arkham. But she had made the mistake of assuming he would be on board with the prisoners, rather than evacuating as an average citizen, so she had bullied her way on board and then found herself trapped, the ferry in the middle of the channel before she discovered her mistake.

It was typical Gotham, she thought sourly as she strode toward the garage where she had stowed her rental car, that a twenty-four hour trip to conduct a simple interview had evolved into a national terror incident. She was still startled that she was climbing into her car and not floating in several ashy pieces in the channel. The moment the clown's diabolical ultimatum had become clear, she had resigned herself to being blown up, to the point of actually phoning her sister. That had been a major strategical error, but it hadn't seemed sporting to die after a lifetime of sibling combat without giving Terry one last chance to say, "I told you so." (Terry had, in fact, taken full advantage of the opportunity: "I always told you this would happen. But would you listen? Do you ever listen? No! What am I supposed to tell Tamara, hmm? That her aunt died because she didn't have the brains of a _gallina_?" Cecilia was expecting her cell to ring with a follow-up lecture any moment, although Terry would undoubtedly save her choicest remarks to deliver in person.)

Tomorrow, no doubt, she would begin to think about what it meant that a city which she had permanently consigned to the worst of humanity's wretched had, defying its remarkably bad track record, performed a collective act of decency. Tonight, particularly after the hours she had been detained on the boat even after the crisis was over, she didn't feel inclined to be anything other than cranky.

Starting her engine, she simultaneously hit the redial button on her cell, then grit her teeth as Connelly's phone cut immediately to voicemail, as it had for the last dozen times she had called him. Tossing her phone on the seat beside her, Cecilia vowed that, three a.m. or not, she would scour Gotham until she unearthed the elusive doctor. Clown or no clown, she was returning to Miami tomorrow. Or rather, today.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit, and she gripped the wheel and blinked hard against the weight on her eyelids. If she were to continue her manhunt for the psychiatrist tonight, she needed coffee. Miraculously, a neon sign glared _OPEN_ at the edge of her blurry vision, and she swung her car around the corner, into one of the dim and tiny alley parking spaces.

The diner atmosphere was laden with grease and cigarette smoke, and the waitress needed a serious makeover, but she produced a Styrofoam cup and filled it with hot (if not fresh) coffee, for the outrageous charge of two dollars and fifty cents. Adding another grievance to her list of complaints against Gotham City, Cecilia flipped open her phone as she walked out to the car and dialed the doctor's number yet again. Astonishingly, it rang instead of going to straight to voice mail, and a moment later a man's terse voice answered, "Connelly here."

Cecilia set her coffee on top of the car as she fumbled for her keys. "Dr. Connelly, this is Cecilia Somerville. We had an appointment this afternoon to talk about John Morriss?"

"Yes, Ms. Somerville." He sounded impatient. "I'm afraid this afternoon was beyond my control. I'll try to reschedule for later this week—"

"I realize it's three a.m.," she snapped, interrupting him, speaking louder so that she could hear herself over the police sirens that suddenly seemed to be screaming everywhere, "but—"

Black gloved fingers ripped her keys from her hand, a hard shove tumbled her to the ground, and her cell phone skittered across the broken asphalt. Even as she pushed herself up, the engine roared and the tires squealed as the thief spun into reverse.

"I really hate this town," Cecilia snarled, even as she snatched her berretta from her waistband and fired two rapid shots at the tires. One of them connected, and the car swung wildly as the rear left wheel exploded, crumpling its bumper against the wall of the alley. "All right, buddy!" she shouted, training the gun on the driver's window. "Get out—"

But he was already cannonading out of the door, a pillar of blackness billowing into the night. She froze in shock as she glimpsed the fierce black cowl, and then the gun was knocked from her hand as he darted past her, the rippling edges of his cloak weirdly illuminated in the whirling squad car lights that filled the alley. Shots rang out and Cecilia threw herself to the ground. A moment later, both pursued and pursuer were gone. Sitting up slowly, she realized that her cell phone lay on the ground next to her and a worried voice was crackling out of it. "Ms. Somerville? Is anyone there? Hello?"

She picked it up. "Dr. Connelly?"

"Ms. Somerville, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, staring ruefully at her crippled vehicle. "But some freak in a bat suit just tried to steal my car."

"What?"

"Let's just say it's a good thing I paid for the full insurance coverage."

* * *

Chapter 2 was written by **Philippa**.

**G.A. Clive** will be up next week with Chapter 3!


	3. Chapter 3

It was an hour after that nightmare, and the police were still collecting their reports from the victims of Joker's latest sche

It was an hour after that nightmare, and the police were still collecting their reports from the victims of Joker's latest scheme. Blue eyes behind a vale of blond bangs cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Connelly. A usually quiet doctor, Quinzel knew little to nothing about her boss as she had often witnessed him holed up in his office pouring over files and notes of his patients. But right now, she knew for certain that this man just about had it with life. He had been standing near the ambulance she was sitting in fidgeting with his coat's lapel before he let out a dry laugh of exasperation and stomped off.

Harleen gave no second thought to him once he was out of sight but instead turned her attention the group of cops stalking towards her. She hated the justice system in Gotham. Those that composed the meat of it cared nothing for the propriety of her profession, often sending just plain ol' criminals to crowd the cells of Arkham. There was only one word to describe them, corrupt. Even Harvey Dent was still kept in a mental file of hers labeled "Suspected Dirt Bags".

She took a sip of her coffee and met the eyes of the new Commissioner, Gordon. "Now what can I do for you _sir_?" She gave him a tight smile.

"I was actually looking for Dr. Connelly, but since he seems to have disappeared, we will have to settle with your expertise."

Dr. Quinnzel but her coffee down and was about to reply, before she was cut off by a heavy-set woman asking where Connelly was. She nodded in the direction the doctor left and turned back to Gordon, "How can I be of assistance?" It was so hard to pretend to be polite!

"Come with us," Gordon ordered and turned to leave. With a roll of her eyes and a sigh of contempt she got up and followed.

Before long, she found herself in one of the construction sites near the river. At first she seemed confused why she was there but the she saw HIM.

A Week Ago:

"Dr. Crane isn't in right now," the whispered hauntingly from his corner in the cell, his eyes turned even colder than what was the norm for Jonathan Crane, "Would you like to leave a message?" his voice sounded different in her ears with only the slightest echo of Jon's voice.

"It is an honor to finally meet you," she replied cautiously as she willed herself to remain calm and composed, she must do everything to hide the fear that clutched her heart as she met his stare. This creature was most certainly not the Jonathan she knew before that night in the narrows, this thing was a monster that fed purely on the fear of others, "I've heard so much about you."

His steely gaze flicked across the room, "Is something the matter Scarecrow?" she asked, her voice smooth and not showing any signs of the icy cold fear in the pit of her stomach.

He offered her a tight, smug smile that made her feel very small, "It's a little cold for my liking, Dr. Quinn," he replied before changing the subject, "Harleen Quinnzel...hmmm..." he muttered to himself as though in deep thought, "Harley Quinn...Harley Quinn...AH!" he exclaimed suddenly, "Harliquin!" he laughed at her confused glance, "You know...a harlequin was a court jester in the dark ages," he explained for her, "You have a very interesting name doctor!" he smiled that smug, chilling smile, "My name, you don't get anything by combining the first and last name. I'm almost jealous!" he laughed hideously, "Hey, wouldn't it be something if you some how ended up with that Joker guy that every one's talking about?"

Harleen had had enough by now and walked towards the door in a huff. She had endured being made fun of in school, but she did not have to endure it in the workplace. "Good day Dr. Crane," she murmured before leaving the room.

And now here she was, Dr. Harleen Quinnzel, face to face with the man who would change her life forever.

The Joker sat, handcuffed, on the ground between two SWAT members, a wicked grin of amusement on his face. Quinnzel turned to Gordon with a look of confusion, "What?" She asked.

Gordon checked his watch before he turned back to the doctor, "It's too risky putting him in a common jail until trial, Doctor," He glanced with hatred at the clown, "We would like him to be put in Arkham for the time being but we need an official statement that he is potentially crazy."

Harleen nodded in understanding before she walked up to Joker and sat cross-legged right in front of him of the floor. "So," She smirked at him, "You're the guy who tried to kill me along with others?" She said it more like a statement of fact than a question.

The Joker's grin grew bigger and a chuckle echoed in side him, "You're taking this," he waved his handcuffed hands around for emphasis, "a bit personally now aren't you, Doctor?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Of _course_ I'm taking this personally!" She leaned forward a little, "And so is everyone else who was on those ferries!" She took out the pad of paper and pen she always kept in her coat pocket, "Now why don't you tell me why you did this?"

The Joker shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes around in thought, "I dunno," He chuckled a bit to himself, "I guess I felt like it!" He erupted in laughter.

Harleen, who had been ready to write something down, knew where this was going and put the pad and pen back in her coat. "You felt like?" She asked incredulously, "There wasn't anyone on those ferries you wanted to get even with?" The Joker shook his head 'no', "Were you holding the ferries for ransom?" Another head shake 'no', "Were you trying to prove a point?" The Joker shrugged his shoulders. "Yes?" She prodded, "No?"

"Maybe 'yes'," He licked his lips, "And maybe 'no'!" With that he burst into such a fit of jubilee that Harleen knew she was done for now. She stood up and walked over to Gordon.

"No suspicion," She said, "That man is crazy!"

Well there you have it everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

The overwhelming fear of the evening was finally wearing off, leaving behind a rampaging drummer on a sugar high right behind her eyeballs; and the din surrounding her was doing nothing to calm the maniacal miniature musician. Thankfully Matt noticed the crease in her forehead and began rubbing soothing circles on her temple with his thumb. "How did I let you talk me into visiting Gotham again?" she asked, her usual humor compelling her to reach around and poke him in the ribs.

"You love me too much to say no," he responded lightly, squirming away from her prodding. A moment later, however, he added, "But you're never coming back to this town again, baby. Soon as I can, I'm moving."

"Good," she replied dryly. "It's about time."

She poked him one last time for good measure before they lapsed into silence again, waiting to be summoned to another room. They had been trying to leave town and head back to college after a few days with Matt's family when the evacuation had been called and they were caught on the ferry, waiting hand-in-hand for death to erupt around them. Then, once the catastrophe had been averted, they had been amongst the select few rounded up by the police to give statements down at the station. Now they were seated in the lobby, seemingly forgotten as cops in and out of uniform ran past them, shouting and swearing and looking for all the world as if Armageddon was about to strike. _I wish it would,_ she thought, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her forehead. _At least this headache wouldn't be a problem anymore._

A cop came out and motioned for Matt to follow him. "Don't get mugged while I'm gone," Matt joked halfheartedly, grasping her shoulder gently as he left.

"I make no promises in this town," she shot back, settling as comfortably as she could into her chair.

Alone, Ann couldn't help replaying the evening over and over again through her mind. She'd never felt fear like that anywhere but in Gotham. Twice she had come to Matt's hometown, and twice she had nearly been killed. No wonder the people of the city were so unapproachable - you never knew if the next apparently friendly face was going to kill you or take your last dime. _You're darn tootin' I'm never coming back to this city, Matthew, _ she informed him within the confines of her own mind. _I love you, boy, but your hometown stinks. Literally._

She jumped slightly as the chair Matt had vacated was filled. Tired but kind brown eyes stared at her through horn rim glasses. "Were you one of the people on the ferry?" he asked gently.

Ann nodded, tucking her hands between her knees.

"You holding up all right? Can I get you a cup of coffee?" he went on, genuine concern in his voice. "You still look a little . . ." he paused to rub his own eyes while he hunted for the right word.

"Wacked out?" Ann supplied helpfully.

He grinned. "I guess that works."

"I'm fine, really," she assured him. "But thank you for asking. Aside from my boyfriend's family and Batman, you're the only person I've met in this town nice enough to care."

"You met Batman?" he asked, wary interest in his voice.

Ann nodded again. "Last year. I was visiting Gotham for the first time. My car broke down and Batman had to save me from three less than savory individuals."

"How many times have you been back?"

"This is only my second time," she said, rolling her eyes. "And probably my last."

"Good grief," the man muttered, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. "Gotham certainly hasn't treated you well. I don't blame you for wanting out for good. Especially after tonight." He paused. "Do you mind if I ask what exactly happened on the ferry?"

Ann shrugged. "They're just going to ask again when they remember that I exist, so I might as well get it all straight in my head now." She explained how she and Matt had been caught in the evacuation and the palpable fear that had overtaken the crowd as soon as the Joker's voice came over the speaker. She told him about the arguing, and the indecision, and the agony of the wait. She explained how everyone seemed to freeze in the last seconds, watching the clock, before they all exhaled in simultaneous relief once they realized that they weren't reduced to debris in the water.

Then, just because she could, she began complaining about the interminable wait in the station and how she and Matt were going to be late for classes in the morning at the rate things were going.

Once she had exhausted the topic and gotten a great deal of frustration out of her system, she fell silent, the throbbing in her head worsened by her rant.

Somewhere in the hubub a voice called out, "Commissioner! Call for you from Arkham, line 6."

She suddenly felt a soft pat on her shoulder. "I gotta go," the man said. "Take care of yourself, kid."

"Wait," she said, opening her eyes. "What's your name?"

"Jim," he replied before slipping into the crowd.

Shortly after that, Matt returned and pulled her carefully to her feet. "Let's get out of here," he said determinedly. At her confused look he explained, "They just told me we could both go."

"But what about my statement?" she asked.

"They said you already gave it to the commissioner," he said, gesturing back over his shoulder to indicate the unnamed 'they'.

Ann smiled. _So that was Commissioner Jim Gordon._ She slipped her arm through Matt's and began leading him to the door. "You know, Matt," she began, "you're right. I'm not coming back to this town for a good long while. But you never know, with a commissioner like that, this town might be ready for our kids to visit when _they're_ in college."

* * *

Up next, Sparta's Ghost!


	5. Chapter 5

"Conroy, what's so important that I- oh, hello Dr. Quinzel," Jim Gordon said when he saw the Arkham psychiatrist talking to Officer Kevin Conroy.

Officer Conroy coughed.

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel has, erm, arrived," the young officer said.

"Ah, yes, thank you," Gordon replied.

"I got your voicemail asking me to come over as soon as I could. Sorry I didn't get the call earlier. Was busy with research."

"The Joker?" Gordon asked.

"Yes. Him."

Harleen frowned. It was an uncomfortable subject because there were more disturbing stories that man had in his file than any other patient in Arkham. The Joker was the last person who wanted to be on her mind at this moment.

Gordon could tell that she didn't like the subject, so he decided it was better to change it.

"Would you know where Dr. Connelly has been? It's been impossible to reach him."

"No. Sorry."

Gordon sighed.

"Well, since he's currently unavailable, would you mind helping us out?," Gordon asked.

"I don't mind at all.

How can I help, sir?"

"Well, there's this one particular prisoner that seems to need an examination. Not to determine if he's crazy, but it's just... an examination."

"Is this in relation to the ferry incident?"

"How'd you know?"

"Wild guess."

"Ah. Anyway, this is on the prisoner who actually threw the detonator instead of pressed it."

"Of course I'll do it."

She smiled at Conroy, who had been silent all the time because he felt a little out of place being a rookie. He simply smiled back.

"It was nice meeting you, Officer Conroy."

"And you as well, Dr. Quinzel," he said respectfully as he left.

"The prisoner's in the interrogation room, so I'll lead you to it. I'll have to stay you during your examination for your safety. This is a **dangerous** man, Dr. Quinzel. Name's Jamal Skulls and yes, the last name is real. Been accused of murder five times, but those reports have never been confirmed. However, he has had a long history with grand theft auto, and has stolen from some of the most prosperous banks in Gotham City."

Harleen nodded, and the two walked to the interrogation room where a tall African American man who Harleen estimated roughly was almost at 7 ft, was already sitting down. It seemed like he was studying her as she sat down.

"He's always like that," Gordon whispered. Harleen nodded and took her seat while Gordon stood while watching the prisoner closely. She took out a small voice recorder from her purse to record their conversation so she would be able to study it later on, and then be able to fill Commissioner Gordon in on her studies.

She decided she would start out casual. She knew it never usually worked with prisoners, but she just did it for the sake of doing it. It was always best to start out that way for her.

"How are you doing today, Mr. Skulls?"

He simply growled. She took that as her cue to move on with her questions.

"There are a few questions I'd like to ask to you. Some of the questions may feel a bit personal, so you can feel free to decline to answer if you wish."

"Could you give me a brief background of what things were like growing up?"

A long silence followed, and Harleen almost thought that he wasn't going to answer her question. She was ready to move on to her next one when he finally spoke up. He sounded a little hesitant and gruff, but at least he was answering.

"Grew up in the Bronx, but we was always moving. Then we somehow ended up in this dump. Mama was always busy and pop was never around, so I was left to raise myself. Was never really taught right from wrong, so I always did what I wanted to."

"How did the absence of your parents affect you?"

"It didn't."

"Surely you must have felt _something_."

"Nope."

"So you just continued to do whatever you wanted to?"

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

"Yes it was. My apologies."

Harleen hesitated on her next question.

"Have you ever killed a man?"

From what she'd seen of Jamal, Harleen expected a long silence or for him to simply skip the question, but was surprised.

He gave an instant reply as if it was one of the most sure fire things he'd ever said in his life. His answer?

"No."

Gordon raised an eyebrow at this because his answer was filled with emotion, which was something he rarely showed. It was short, but the way he said it had been surprising.

"_Interesting_," was all that Harleen was thinking before she moved on to her last few questions.

She thought this man was one of the most interesting patients she had yet, maybe even more than the Joker or the Scarecrow. It was obvious that he was a very stoic man and somebody who preferred to keep things to himself, but it seemed like he was prone to honest displays of emotion, which was something rare one ever saw in a prisoner.

Harleen had already gotten plenty of answers as to who this was in her simple choice of questions, and wanted to continue to interview this prisoner in the future, if it was allowed by Gordon after this interview.

"Let's move on to what happened at the ferry."

"When you were on that ferry and found out what the Joker had been plotting, what were your thoughts?"

"I ain't dying."

"Did they remain your thoughts?"

"No."

"When did they change?"

"After thinking about it for a long time."

"Why did they change?"

Jamal Skulls looked a bit stumped at this question. He looked like he was trying to come up with an answer, but wasn't able to come up with one.

"This will be my last question. Why did you throw away that detonator?"

This time he didn't have a stumped look on his face while answering.

"Those people there didn't deserve to die."

"That'll be it for this interview."

Harleen pressed the stop button on her voice recorder.

She stood up and left with Gordon, who had an astounded look on his face.

"Dr. Quinzel, that was _incredible_."

"Thank you, sir."

While they were walking away from the interrogation room, Harleen paused, as did Gordon.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Would it be possible if I could continue to interview that prisoner in the future?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you-"

BZZT! BZZT!

Harleen Quinzel took out the vibrating cellphone from her purse and frowned.

"Something wrong, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Sir, I think you need to see this message."

She handed him the phone, and Gordon's eyes widened along with Harleen's.

On the screen read the words:

"Please help me!"

- Connelly

Chapter 5 was written by **Sparta's Ghost**

**Blodeuedd** will be up next with Chapter 6!


	6. Chapter 6

The tangled streets near the Tricorner Yards dated back to the city's founding; they had no rhyme or reason. Even though he'd just traced his way over to the station from these streets, they were downright impenetrable in Drake's predawn haze.

"Take a look around, Ms. Somerville. " He suppressed an oath as Harbor Road became a dead-end. "What landmarks do you see?"

"Not much," crackled the voice on the phone. "My car's still back in the alley, but I'm not chancing it. I'm in a diner—it's called Fanny's. On Sentinel."

She was at the very diner he'd been at only a few hours ago. Drake smiled—out of triumph or bitterness or both—and turned his car around.

"I'm almost there. Just wait for me."

"It's not like I had anywhere else to be. I feel like I've had a thorough experience of what your lovely city has to offer."

_Was that sarcasm?_ He hung up instead of asking.

Cecilia Somerville was waiting in the window of Fanny's Diner as Drake pulled up. He parked the car and waved at her, ignoring the cowlike stare of the waitress who'd served him earlier.

Somerville exited, then tugged at the side door of his sedan a few times before he remembered it was locked and hurried to let her in.

He didn't have to be from a volatile Irish family to recognize an incensed woman when he saw one. He let her settle before he tried to engage her in conversation.

"I'm headed back to the GCPD station near Arkham. We need to get all the prisoners back to Blackgate or the Asylum by noon today."

"You're not going to let them all go into the streets like you usually do?"

_Ouch. _He smiled ruefully, shook his head. "Not this time."

His phone's shrill ring filled the uneasy silence until he managed to snap it open and bring it to his ear.

"Connelly?"

"Oh, Commissioner. I've got Ms. Somerville and we're headed back right now."

"Great. Look, ah, next time we're trying to recover inmates and deal with civilians, let's try to keep you available, okay? Lofton and Quinzel and the rest are up to their ears in work."

This kept getting better and better. Now he'd irked the new Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department—someone with whom he'd be working for years to come. If the Asylum's board didn't fire him for playing hooky on the most important night in the institution's history.

"Yes, sir. But—I mean, I'm sorry. It's just—" He looked at Cecilia. "Ms. Somerville came all the way from Miami on the DEA's behalf to meet with me about a patient. Tonight she had a run-in with some of your guys and—"

"A bat," she put in.

"A bat…" Drake repeated.

He'd heard all about this Bat-Man. A handful of his patients even claimed to have seen the guy. But there was no chance he'd be heard saying 'Batman' in conversation with Gotham's Commissoner.

"I've heard that one before." Gordon sounded a little more sympathetic. "Just head back over here and we'll make sure Somerville gets taken care of."

"I have a press conference soon; I'll talk with her either directly before or after." He sent a glance over to Cecilia; she nodded agreement.

"Keep it short," the other man replied. "Things are moving too quickly for long chats with the press, Drake. We've apprehended the Joker and been holding him in custody—you'll be wanting to take a look at him before he's interned at the Asylum, I'm sure. Your colleague didn't take long to pronounce him criminally insane."

"I'll be with the Joker soon enough."

"Joker, huh?" Cecilia sent him a look of strange, unexpected pity as he hung up.

He met her gaze wordlessly. Meeting the so-called Joker in the flesh felt just as odd as acknowledging the existence of a Batman in front of Gordon. It was enough to cope with the human madmen, the killers and the rapists and the deranged miscellany in between.

He parked the car as close as he could to the bustling station, then got out and hurried in, Cecilia following.

Dr. Lofton hurried toward where they stood. Drake felt a pang of remorse, seeing how haggard and breathless the older man was.

"Greg. How's the move been going?"

"We have most guys ready to go back to the Asylum," Lofton panted. "But they seem restless. We need to sort out who's been in the Joker's employ and who needs to be put in maximum security, so on."

"Where's Bannon? Pierce? Quinzel?"

"Pierce and Bannon went back to the Asylum about a half-hour ago, to oversee the move-in. Quinzel's with one of the Blackgate inmates."

"Blackgate Penitentiary? What's Harleen doing with one of their—"

A flurry of motion caught Drake's attention; he barely had time to register what was going on before Lofton was pinned by an orange-suited inmate.

Drake's eyes fell on the telltale rows of tally-mark scars on the back of the attacker's neck. He threw himself on the Asylum patient, hauling the wiry man upward with all his strength.

It wasn't uncommon for him to struggle with patients, but this man fought him like a wild animal before his restraining officers recovered control.

"I'll kill you! Kill you all!" The inmate spat as he was dragged off. "Kill you before the Joker does!"

"Who was that?" The sourceless question sparked a hubbub.

"Victor Zsasz. Murdered for Falcone's gang," someone answered finally. "Didn't you see his scars?"

Drake couldn't reply; his eyes fell on Lofton, pale and unconscious on the linoleum floor.

"Somebody get Quinzel!" He cried raggedly at last, falling to his knees. If Lofton was out—and hopefully he was just senseless—Drake needed her to go into overtime. It was too late for a phonecall.

"Ms. Somerville!" She was at his back; he tossed her his cellphone.

"Text Harleen Quinzel; tell her we need help now."

* * *

Chapter 6 by **Blodeuedd**; the talented **Ms. Philippa** is up next!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Cecilia hit _Send Text_, then realized she forgotten to tell Quinzel where they were. Typing and sending the additional message, she slipped the phone back into Connelly's coat pocket as he continued to hover anxiously over the collapsed Dr. Lofton, then stepped back out of the way. Hours after the attack on the ferries, the police station was still a site of chaos. Officers frantically ran in and out of the room, juggling files, coffee cups, and communication devices. The few remaining exhausted ferry passengers were collapsed in plastic chairs lining the walls. Phones rang unanswered because the desk attendant had disappeared. Cecilia's eyes lit on the unattended computer screen, her brain seized by a sudden thought. If she could figure out where in this mess the elusive convict John Morriss was, maybe she could use the chaos to gain access to him. She could get what she needed and be gone before Connelly or any member of GCPD realized it.

Assuming the "I have every right to be doing this" air so necessary to any con, she strode toward the desk and had just stepped behind it when the desk attendant reappeared, fresh cup of coffee in hand. Swearing silently, Cecilia dropped to her knees and pretended to be looking for something.

"Ma'am, you can't be back here," the woman snapped, sounding as though she actually wanted to use a much stronger form of address.

"I'm sorry, I just dropped my … ah." Serendipitously, she spotted a plastic card beneath the desk. "My driver's license. It skidded under your desk." As proof, she held up the ID card, careful to keep her thumb over the picture, then retreated back around the desk. Safely away from the woman's suspicious gaze, she examined the stolen license. The picture was of a young woman, and the name was Ann Russo. _I suppose I'll have to mail this to her_, Cecilia thought ruefully, slipping the card into her pocket as a woman with long blond bangs and dressed in civilian clothes walked into the waiting room.

"Quinzel!" Connelly exclaimed in relief. "Lofton's collapsed, we've got to get the prisoners back, and the commissioner wants me to interview the Joker."

"That's hardly necessary." Her voice was clear, her face calm and cold. "I already gave the commissioner the diagnosis he needed." _Knows her job and resents the implication that she doesn't_, Cecilia judged.

Before Connelly could respond, Commissioner Gordon appeared. His worn face brightened slightly when he spotted Arkham's head. "Dr. Connelly, am I glad to see you. You need to interview the Joker and decide where in Arkham you're putting him, because I need him out of here. Now. He unsettles the rest of the prisoners, and we're too full to give him the isolation he needs. This is a minor precinct, not set up to handle a mass inflow of prisoners."

Connelly's expression took on another shade of weariness, but he nodded assent. "All right. Where is he?"

"Chained up in a cell, but he can still talk through the bars to the other prisoners. I'll have to put you in conference room C." He pointed across the waiting area. "It means we'll have to bring him through here, but it can't be helped, everywhere else is full. And he's played all his aces. Finally." There was a bitter twist to his mouth as he spoke the final word, before he ordered a nearby lieutenant to summon the Joker and his guards.

Cecilia's eyes raked the commissioner's face, her curiosity momentarily overcoming the usual revulsion she felt for everything associated with Gotham. As though he sensed her intense gaze, he looked up and met her eyes.

"And who are you?"

"Cecilia Somerville, with the DEA. I'm the one whose car was almost hijacked by the Bat Man."

The bitter twist of his mouth tightened, and then, with a visible effort, he smoothed the expression and said almost genially, "We'll add it to his rap sheet. At the moment, we want him on five counts of murder."

"I beg your pardon," a high, rather nasal voice politely interjected, "but did I just hear you say that Batman is accused of murder?"

The Joker, chained hand and foot, with an escort of no less than four guards, stood looking at Gordon with an expression of inquiry. Dark eyes gleamed out of the depths of what was left of a bad make-up job. _If they'd make him wash his face, he'd lose half of that aura_, Cecilia thought, slightly shaken despite herself by … something … a shadow about those eyes …

The nasal voice continued, "It must be a mistake. The Batman would never kill anyone." He nodded confidentially. "I should know." The tip of a red tongue flicked out over blood red lips. "You know what I think, Commissioner? I think you're a liar."

Gordon jerked his head as a signal for the guards to keep moving, and then the Joker snapped.

With a strength born of madness, he broke free of the restraining hands of his guards and lunged toward Gordon, screaming, "He didn't do it! You can't say he did it!"

His escape was only momentary. A moment later he was dragged to his knees by the guards, but nothing could stop his shrieking. "He didn't do it! Lies, lies, lies!"

"Get him out of here," the commissioner snarled, and the guards dragged the Joker, still screaming, toward the conference room.

Everyone watched him go, except Cecilia, who had seen something spill onto Gordon's face when the Joker had spoken. Was it fear? Grief? Fury? The traces of it lingered in anguished lines, and in a flash of conviction she knew that the Batman was not guilty and that Gordon was deliberately perpetrating the lie. For a moment, she felt herself being pulled into the vortex, starting to care about whatever dark sorrow underlay Gotham's latest bloody chapter. And then she pulled herself back, sharply. What, after all, did the Batman's guilt or innocence matter to her? _This is not my problem_.

"He didn't do it!" With another inhuman burst of strength, the Joker again wrenched free from his guards. But instead of attacking, he lifted his manacled hands and pointed. "You! You believe me!"

Again the guards were in control, dragging him, silent at last, into the security of the conference room. Cecilia examined, in determined indifference, the shaken face of Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

* * *

This chapter was written by **Philippa**! Next up at the plate is **G.A. Clive**!

If you've read, please review! We'd love some outside feedback on how our little experiment is going.


	8. Chapter 8

Ann bit back a curse, looking through every stupid membership and rewards card in her wallet for the tenth time. _I loath this town! _she thought bitterly as her Pet Perks card slipped through her fingers and hit the tiled floor.

"Matt," she said, ignoring the overwhelming sound of a whine in her voice, "I can't find my driver's license. I must have lost it back at the police station."

Beside her she heard Matt heave a sigh followed by a huge yawn. "If it isn't one thing, it's another," he said simply. He placed a calming hand at the small of her back and turned to the girl behind the desk. "Miss Russo won't be driving," he promised yet again, "and you already have my license. Why can't you let us rent a car?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the girl insisted, although Ann wasn't convinced, "but since Miss Russo will be paying, we need to see proof . . ."

Sick of the stupid bureaucratic runaround, Ann tuned her out, allowing the monotonous activity of restuffing her wallet to overtake her mind. Once they had left the police station, they had trekked to the nearest bus station, but after fifteen minutes of waiting, all that had come was a cranky city worker taping up flyers announcing a bus drivers' strike. Apparently the Joker's hold over the city hadn't ended once he was taken into police custody. Not only had the bus-line suffered, but the train and taxi services as well. In fact, all forms of mass transit had shut down in fear. Matt had instantly called the airline they were planning to take back to school and learned that Archie Goodwin International Airport had been closed as soon as the Joker's bombs had started going off, and still hadn't reopened.

The only option they had left was to rent a car and drive, missing a day of classes along the way. But everyone wanted out of Gotham at the moment, and so all of the more well-known - _and more reputable, _Ann added bitterly - rental companies were out of cars. So they had found their way down the line to "Go Gotham Car Rentals" where the girl behind the desk - Becky according to her "Hello, my name is" sticker - informed Matt that his Discover card was not an acceptable method of payment. Ann's Visa was, but they needed proof of ID, and so here they were.

She finally had everything back in place and returned her wallet to her backpack. Taking a deep breath, she tuned back into the conversation just as Matt's voice took on that dangerous quality that meant his Irish-Italian temper was about to go. "Matt," she broke in quietly, tucking her arm through his. "Can we just go back to the station and get my license so that we can get out of here? Please?"

He glanced down at her, the anger still flashing in his eyes, and nodded tightly. "Let's go," he said, turning both of them around without another word to the girl behind the desk.

Two hours later found them once again in the lobby of the Gotham City Police Department. There were considerably fewer people waiting around at this hour, but there was a small knot of people, including the commissioner, arguing about something in the corner. Ann heard the Joker and Arkham mentioned several times as the group moved through one of the doors and disappeared.

She and Matt had been discussing all the different places that the errant card might be as they walked, and so Ann headed straight for the front desk. There had obviously been a shift change because where last time there had been a young woman, an overweight elderly man was sitting.

"May I help you?" he asked kindly, his pleasant attitude also a clear indicator that he had just gotten on duty.

"Yes, my name is Ann Russo. I was in earlier to give a statement and I seem to have accidently left my driver's license. Has anyone reported finding it?"

A few clicks of his mouse and a quick shuffle of the papers cluttering the desktop produced a sympathetic shake of his head. "Sorry, missy, but we don't have it here." He pulled a few pamphlets out of a drawer. "Here're a few good security companies. You might want to consider the possibility of identity theft."

Exhausted and exasperated, Ann could only manage a weak smile of thanks before turning away, the glossy brochures clutched in her hand. _Will this nightmare ever end? What have I done recently to deserve this?_

Matt wrapped a consoling arm around her shoulders. "Maybe you dropped it where you were sitting," he said, leading her in that direction.

Before they reached the chairs, however, a strange voice called out, "Ann Russo?"

_Now what?!_

Ann turned to find a Latin woman she didn't know waiting somewhat impatiently for an answer. "May I help-?"

"I believe this is yours," the woman cut in, miraculously producing a small plastic card.

Lack of sleep and excess frustration conspired against her and Ann felt her emotional control slipping. "Thank you!" she gushed, taking the license and holding it tightly to her heart. "You're awesome!"

The woman seemed slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly and offered a mostly sincere, "You're welcome," before striding off and resuming her business.

Almost in tears by this point, Ann turned back to her boyfriend and hugged him tightly. "Can we please just go back to your parents' house and get some sleep before we try anything else?" she muttered into his chest.

She felt his brief chuckle of agreement against her cheek as they both started for the door yet again. "Still want our kids to visit this town when they turn eighteen?" he asked jokingly.

She pretended to think about it before shrugging. "Maybe our grandchildren can bring their kids. After all, the grudge this town has against me just might extend to all my relatives as well."

_This chapter written by Texas Chigger.  
Next chapter by Sparta's Ghost!_


	9. Chapter 9

Harleen watched in silent horror as she saw Joker dragged away to the conference room. Why would he care so much about the innocence of the one man in Gotham who was able to take him down from his high rise of crime? The sheer strength from his madness had so shocked Harleen, she had heard of drug addicts and criminals driven to uncanny strength by adrenaline, but never had she seen it to that extent. What drove this psychopath to act-think the way he did?

She looked over the rest of the hallway and met the curious glance of Cecilia. "C'mon," she heard Connelly beckon, "You will be assigned to him, so you may as well be there for the interview."

Harleen quickly fell into step with her boss as they made their way through the overly crowded police station to the appointed conference room. When they entered, Harleen could see that Joker had been calmed down and was now sitting at the table with his chained hands resting on the metal top.

His eyes flicked up to Dr. Connelly, his skin tightened around the eyes, and then turned his gaze to Harleen. Something strange was in that look, but Harleen could not tell what it was…

"Am I to call you 'Joker'? Or is there another name I can put down on your records?" Connelly sat down in the chair on the other side of the table. Joker still hadn't broken eye contact with Harleen. "Joker, can you answer my question please?" Connelly demanded without impatience. He knew what he was in for with this psychopath, and losing his stoic composure wasn't going to help.

"Now what is up with names?" Joker turned to Connelly, "After all! You don't even get to choose it! Your parents give it to you!" He looked back at Harleen, "Ya know, I never did like my parents…" He held her gaze for a few seconds before Connelly called his attention back to the interview.

" 'Joker' it is then," He wrote it down on the report in front of him. "Can you tell me what occupation you were trained in before you took to your current exploits?" Joker just stared at him before he looked down at his vest with surprise.

"Well would you look at that?" He chuckled with surprise, "I have blood on me!" He then became enthralled with the spot on his waistcoat as he began picking at it. The sound of a vibrator went off and Connelly looked down in surprise at his beeper. He rose from his chair and moved towards Harleen, "Do you think you can watch him until I get back?" She nodded an affirmative, though she was uncomfortable with the situation. She guessed she would have to get used to it.

She stayed where she was when the doctor left the room and found herself unable to stop staring at the crazed menace before her. His brown eyes flicked up at her and she found herself unable to move. He offered her what she guessed was a reassuring smile, but she didn't know what it was she was to be assured of. He slowly rose from his chair and leaned against the table, all the while looking her up and down.

"Ya know, I kinda like you!" He exclaimed, "Much better than that wife of mine!"

"You were married?" She immediately berated herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her. His smile widened as he circled the table to close in the distance between them.

"Uh-huuuh!" He drawled as he licked his lips, his eyes again roving over her body. "What an interesting name you have!" Her eyes widened behind her bangs and she involuntarily moved back against the wall. "Not as interesting as my wifey's name!" The gap between them was continually growing smaller. "You know what I didn't like about her?" He was close enough to grab her now. "She didn't know how to smile!" What Harleen thought to be a laugh began to well up from within him. "But you," He closed the gap, his face merely inches from her face. "You know how to smile!"

Harleen pressed herself flat against the wall and glanced across the room. Why couldn't they be given a room with a two-way mirror? She looked around for the security camera and realized with shock that she was standing directly under it. The personnel probably didn't even know she was in there to begin with! "You look frightened!" He grabbed her face with his cuffed hands and forced her to look him straight on. "I'm not going to hurt you!" He laughed insanely, "Remember, I like you!" He hissed, his eyes rolled around in pleasure as he licked his stained lips. "Now let's see a smile!" He nearly screamed pulling her face even closer to his.

Harleen hesitated, taking stock of her current situation. It was all so ridiculous! Here she was, trapped in an interrogation room, the police not aware of this, being ordered to smile by a raving maniac dressed like a clown! All the stress, fear, and frustration she had kept pent up finally let loose as she flung her head back and laughed. She was going crazy! She knew it! And for some unknown reason, deep in her heart, she liked it. She loved to let loose! She loved to laugh! And now, the crazed maniac joined in, his hyena howls reverberating off the room's sterile, white walls.

She met the gleeful eyes of Joker and immediately knew a bond was formed. Here they were, two victims of an outrageous series of events, thrown together and now armed with complete understanding of each other. She didn't blame him any more. In fact, she secretly congratulated him, for going against normality, the chain of authority that drove the people down, for going against the basic way of life, and letting lose.

Their laughter died down and for a moment they stood there—Two maniacs now bound together; a bond no man, not even the Batman, could break. Joker's grin widened beyond what was first thought impossible and he seized her face once again and kissed her. Her giggles echoing up her throat, contagious to the extreme, and again they laughed.

This lil bit o' insanity was constructed by G.A. Clive. If you think the author is crazy, she is already fully aware of that fact.


	10. Chapter 10

Harleen could barely describe the rush of emotions that she felt at the moment. One moment, Connelly had left her alone in a room with a man who she was incredibly terrified of and the next moment, their lips were locked in an intense kiss! All that initial fear had been wiped away by the heat of the moment, and now she stood there, eyes boring in to the Joker's with a deep look. Some would call it fascination, some would call it a look of intrigue, but many would call the look in her eyes a look of lust. She didn't know what was happening to her, because after all this time of trying to understand the Joker, it felt like one passionate kiss made her feel like she understood his world now. She knew she should have something completely different, but no. All fear had been instantly wiped away at the heat of the moment, and she knew that she _liked_ that kiss.

"I-I can't believe this. One kiss from the Joker had just brought something in me that I haven't felt since I had my first kiss back in middle school! It's like an adrenaline rush... it's been minutes since we last kissed, but my heart is still pounding!" the psychiatrist thought.

It was true. Harleen could feel her heart beat a mile a minute as she just sat there, still awestruck and laughing out loud. How long had she been laughing now? Did it really matter? While she was laughing, her thoughts continued to pile up.

"This is too much. I should feel something else then what I'm feeling now, shouldn't I? Shouldn't I feel angry at Connelly for leaving me alone with him? Shouldn't I be terrified that I just kissed a delusional criminal? Why do I feel this way all of a sudden? This is just, this is just cra-"

She didn't finish the word. Instead, she threw her head back and continued to laugh hysterically. The laughs mixed with the Joker, and before the two of them knew it, their lips were locked again. This time, the Joker seemed to be the one that was a little puzzled, if it were possible. His eyes had widened a bit when Harleen walked up to him (but the trademark grin was still well on his face) and waited to see what happened next. When it was Harleen who initiated the kiss, the Joker immediately accepted it until they broke apart, both of them breathing for air and laughing wildly at the same time.

"See? Now was it that hard to smile... Harley?" the Joker asked.

As her laughter died down, Harleen realized what she had been called. Harley. She had always hated being called Harley when she was in school and it brought up many terrible memories of childhood teasing with such a name. There were many variations of nicknames kids gave her and many cruel things that were said to her. All this led to her dropping the nickname when she went to college and picking up her real name, Harleen, in hopes of starting a new identity. Now, she was called Harley by the Joker, and it didn't seem embarrassing at all to her, not with the way he said her name. Besides, the two names seemed to fit together, and she liked that. Harley. Harley Quinn and the Joker. She smiled again. That had a real ring to it.

The sound of the door opening and closing startled Harleen - no, Harley, a bit as she turned around to see that Connelly (along with two prison guards) had returned. With a persona in her that she never knew existed before, she began to realize something. She despised Connelly. She didn't know how or why that realization ever came to her, but she did. She really despised Connelly. And when she thought of it some more, she despised a lot of things about Gotham, much like the same way the Joker did. All these feelings weren't exactly something completely new or anything, because she was sure these feelings had been brooding inside her for quite a long amount of time. She knew she had always hated Gotham's justice system, and she especially despised the way the police ran about. Now that she had a life-altering moment with the Joker, it seemed that everything was starting to be put into perspective. He really wasn't insane as everybody else thought. In fact, he was just as sane as her. It seemed they had a lot of the same ideals and they certainly had a lot in common.

Connelly coughed, as he stared at the Joker, then stared at Harley for what seemed to be an even longer period of time. His eyebrow was raised when he was staring at Harley. Harley could feel her heart pounding a mile a minute again.

"Good to see you back."

"Right... anyway, we have to be off again."

"Again?" Harley asked, hiding the disappointment in her voice.

Connelly nodded.

"What happened?"

"You remember Jamal Skulls, don't you?"

Harley nodded.

"There's been..." Connelly paused briefly and looked at the Joker.

"What're you looking at me for?" the Joker asked innocently.

Connelly just shook his head and turned his head back to Harley.

"An incident. We're needed back."

Harley blinked. Now? She didn't want to go! Not now!

But even if she didn't want to, she had to. She still had to keep this relationship (was that even a right thing to call it? a relationship? did the Joker have these strange, strong feelings she was starting to feel for him now? did he feel the same way?) under wraps for the time being, because now that she had rediscovered a side of her that she had never been aware of, there was still many things she had to do.

She let Connelly exit the door first as she walked behind him slowly. As she turned to look at the Joker, he gave her a simple smile. She looked at the two other guards, and then left the room with one thing in her mind.

It was her fault that he was in this place to begin with. She would get him out, no matter what it took.

I thank Clive for her craziness, because it allowed me **(Sparta's Ghost)** to unleash all this extra craziness into this story. Crazy isn't always bad. :D

Anyway, this chapter was written by **Sparta's Ghost**, and the next one (I believe) will be written by **Blodeuedd**


	11. Chapter 11

It was beginning to feel as if his mind were a filing cabinet, Drake decided as he headed back to Jamal's holding area. Crammed full of too many thoughts, too many problems.

Dr. Quinzel trailed behind him, taking one step for every two of his own. Her quiet was guilty, childish, troubled.

_The Joker must have said something to her_. He shuddered inwardly at the thought. That twisted, demoniacal man. He should have never have left the two of them alone; as much as Quinzel was renowned in the area for her criminal psychology training, she'd always seemed frail to him, uncertain.

So why had he felt like yelling at her, warning her off, for that first split second when he'd returned to the conference room? He couldn't figure it out. The Joker's yelping, scalded laughter echoed in his head, mocking him.

_I didn't even get the interview I wanted. _He thought of poor Cecilia—though 'poor' was hardly the word that leapt to mind when he thought of that woman—waiting for him somewhere in this madhouse of a police station. _None of us are. _

He halted outside the crowded holding area where six officers or so were keeping most of the Blackgate criminals under close watch.

"What's wrong with Skulls?" Quinzel asked finally, sounding like a disinterested actress in a stage play.

Much as he would have liked to know what had transpired in her minutes alone with Gotham's most dangerous man, Drake was annoyed by her apparent numbness. If he didn't know better, he'd say she seemed impatient.

"You interviewed this man earlier, didn't you?" He asked.

Her blue eyes fairly crackled. "Yes."

"And you requested to continue working with him?"

"Yes."

"There was a scuffle among some of the prisoners in here, after breaking it up, he said he wants to speak with us."

She had no reply for this, so Drake nodded to an officer, who motioned Jamal Skulls—towering over the other prisoners by a good two feet—to the edge of the big cell.

"You're back," he observed through the bars in a low rumble.

At Drake's side, Quinzel looked away, fingering one of the worn iron bars.

"Mr. Skulls—" Drake began, taking initiative.

"Jamal, Doc, just Jamal." It sounded like an order.

"Okay. Jamal. What seems to be the problem?"

"_They_—" He pointed to a young couple sitting by the exit of the police department, getting firmly reprimanded by an officer. Drake had to squint to see them down the long hall—he wondered how the burly prisoner had even noticed the two.

"They been here all night," Jamal continued in a voice so low that it was hard to hear, "They're just sitting, getting scared of us and our fights. The lady—she don't deserve to be seeing this. We—" He half-waved one huge hand at the band of men squabbling around him. "We might deserve this, Doc. But they sure don't. First they sitting, now they getting yelled at."

"Thanks, Jamal, I'll see to it. And thank you. For breaking up the fight." Drake turned, gently nudging Quinzel away from the enclosure. She bristled against the touch, still oddly off-color.

"What was your assessment of Jamal Skulls? He's a Blackgate inmate, what's he doing with us?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "They asked me to take a look at him. He doesn't seem like the others."

"No," he agreed, "Look. I'll go deal with this issue with the civilians and get back to work. Could you make the arrangements to book Jamal for a few monthly appointments in our low-risk wing for further observation? I wouldn't go so far as to say he was a victim of mistrial, but…he deserves a second look."

She nodded, probably less out of agreement than to get him out of her way. "I'll do it."

He turned away and headed down the long hall to where the officer stood, in the middle of haranguing the couple

"She wasn't looking for trouble!" The young man protested, as the girl looked at the floor, mouth pinched.

"Well, what was she doing snooping behind the desk? Debbie told me the name 'Ann Russo' and, well, here she is! This is a _police station_," the officer said with obvious relish, "and she has no right to muddle around in our business."

"She wasn't! Were you, Ann?"

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Drake's heart leapt in sympathy—she looked as exasperated with it all as he did.

"What's going on here?" He asked, stepping between the officer and the seated couple.

"I was told to look out for a civilian named Ann Russo. She was wandering around the station earlier tonight."

"And you're Ann?" Drake turned to the young woman.

Her expression pained, she nodded again and looked to the man beside her. "And this is Matt—my boyfriend."

"I was in here for questioning earlier—then we left. There's no way she was giving anyone trouble. We're only back because she lost her license!" The young man's temper flared visibly at the last line; his gaze snapped balefully to the officer.

"You were released? Then go," said Drake. "Thank you for your time. Go ahead."

"Come on, Matt," Ann urged, "Let's do it. …Maybe we'll see Batman on our way out," she added drolly.

The two rose and left the station. Drake shrugged at the quivering, impotent officer, and retraced his steps up the hall.

"Where's Quinzel?" He asked a guard outside the enclosure.

He saw Jamal seated in the corner of the cell. The other prisoners kept their distance from the dormant colossus.

"Did she request the appointments with Jamal?" He pressed further when the guard looked at him blankly.

"Who? The blonde?"

"_Yes_, the blonde."

The guard shook his head, eyebrows lifting. "Nah. She ran out of here the moment you left, man. She's gone."

* * *

Chapter 11 by **Blodeuedd**, up next is **Philippa**'s final installment in this tag-teamer!


	12. Chapter 12

"You can take him back to the cell," Cecilia told the guards as she left the interrogation room. She had secured an interview with John Morriss, without the help of Dr. Drake Connelly, and it had only taken the threat of extradition to persuade him to sing like a canary. Now she had the information she had come for—information too sensitive to trust over the phone lines but which had to be back in Miami within twelve hours, and her rental car was still sitting in an alley with one tire blown away.

A soft giggle distracted her. Glancing over, she saw Harleen Quinzel leaning against the wall in a dark corner, both hands clapped childishly over her mouth to hold back laughter.

"Dr. Quinzel, are you all right?" she asked automatically, realizing that the psychiatrist might have a car sitting out in the parking lot.

Quinzel jerked her hands away from her mouth. The small purse hanging over her shoulder went flying and strewed its contents across the floor. Both women dropped to their knees to gather them up. "There you are," Cecilia said, handing over a lipstick, change purse, and clip-on ID tag.

Quinzel accepted them without a word and shoved them back into her bag, the traces of her hysteria hidden behind a stiff, angry expression.

Genuinely curious now, Cecilia repeated, "Are you all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine. Quite fine, thank you," Quinzel all but hissed, standing and walking swiftly away.

Cecilia watched her go, then picked up the set of keys covered by the edge of her coat. Pocketing her loot, she moved determinedly in the direction of the exit, and as she swung too hastily around a corner, almost slammed into Commissioner Gordon.

He, too, was leaning against the wall, but instead of laughing he was pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. A very large headache. His hand dropped as he looked at her. "Miss Somerville. Heading out?"

"Yes, I was able to interview the prisoner. There's an early morning flight I'll just be able to make."

Gordon shook his head. "Airport's closed. All other mass transportation is down, too, and the city's just been put under curfew. No civilians on the roads before ten o'clock this morning. I suggest you find a couch somewhere and make yourself comfortable."

Before she could explain that it was a matter of international security that she find a way out of Gotham _now_, he walked away. Scowling, Cecilia headed for the parking lot anyway, to discover which car was Quinzel's. She found it by hitting the unlock button and was momentarily amused by the vanity plates. _I wouldn't have thought she was the type_. Returning her mind to the problem at hand, she knew it was vain to hope she could elude the patrols and make it past the city limits. Morning was advancing, but it was still dark and she didn't know the roads.

_I need a different car_. There was nothing useful on this side of the building, but she rounded the corner and found three squad cars. Bending down, she peered into the passenger side window of the first one and saw the keys hanging from the ignition. She was just easing the door handle back when another car door opened, and someone climbed out onto the asphalt. Cecilia froze, then slunk down so that she couldn't be seen through the window.

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" a man's voice asked. He listened to an indistinguishable reply and then said, "I know it tastes like road tar, but we gotta keep awake somehow."

After another moment of stretching, he got back in the car. Cecilia crept away until she was safely hidden by the corner of the building. _I need a distraction_.

"What do you mean he can't hear the phone?" a girl's voice pleaded, and Cecilia looked over to see the owner of the lost license.

Her boyfriend shoved his cell phone in his pocket. "Dad turns his hearing aid off at night. He's probably slept through this whole thing, and there's no way the phone will wake him up." The girl gave a muffled sob. "Oh baby, don't cry," he pleaded, pulling her into his arms.

_They look like nice kids,_ Cecilia reflected. _Too bad._ Assuming a tired smile, she stepped forward. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Are you two trying to get somewhere inside the city?"

"Yeah, my parents'," the boy answered, as his girlfriend tried to wipe away her tears.

"Look, I'm stuck here for who knows how long, but I've got a rental. So why don't you drive it to your parents' house, and bring it back later today? I'll still be here."

The girl, Ann she remembered, gave Cecilia a teary stare of amazement. "Really?"

She shrugged. "It's not doing any good just sitting here." She shook her finger warningly, "But don't put a scratch on it, or my insurance adjustor will hunt you down."

"We'll treat it like a baby," the guy swore.

Cecilia handed over the keys and pointed out Quinzel's car, then watched them drive away, returning their grateful smiles and waves. As soon as they pulled out of the parking lot, she raced back around the corner to the squad cars. "Help! Somebody help me!"

The cop she'd overheard earlier jumped out of his car. "Ma'am?"

"Somebody just stole my car!" she gasped. "I mean, it's my friend's, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, but she gave me the keys to get her coffee cup out, and after I had the door open, this couple shoved me down on the pavement and drove it off."

"What did they look like?" the cop demanded.

"They were definitely both Caucasian, a guy and a girl. Young. The car is a dark blue Honda Civic, license plate HRLYQN. They went east out of the parking lot."

The cop nodded and jumped back into his car. The siren blared and the squad car peeled away in hot pursuit. Cecilia jerked open the door of the far car and found the keys still in the ignition. Turning on her own siren, she jammed down the accelerator and tore through the city streets, smiling grimly as the few cars pulled frantically out of her path.

Safely outside Gotham, she made a call and found that there was a direct flight to Miami leaving in four hours from an airport 378 miles away.

She made the flight.

* * *

This was **Phlippa's **last chapter! Next up is **G.A. Clive**!


	13. Chapter 13

Harleen dug through her purse frantically, "I need to get out of this dump!" She looked around anxiously and met the determined look of a cop striding quickly towards her. "Oh hell," she breathed to herself, "WHAT NOW!" She snapped at the officer once he reached her. He jumped back in surprise at the tone, but after reminding himself that he was facing a five-foot-two blond in heels he regained his nerve and stared down at her.

"Your car has been stolen, ma'am," he then went on to explain the identity of the suspects and the series of events.

"Wait!" She cut him off as he launched into another detail of the event, "I don't care to hear about this right now!" She glared up at him, "I don't care what you do to fix this, just do it!" She turned to walk away, but the officer's voice stopped her, "Where do you think you're going, ma'am?"

The good doctor whirled around at him and hissed, "I'm gonna go find some decent coffee!" Her eyes narrowed, "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No ma'am!" Harleen turned and marched towards the door and pretended to not hear the officer's grumbled insults and terms of endearment he had given her. She had had enough! "Oh he thinks I'm bitchy now," she grumbled to herself, "Wait till I'm through with this place!" Her heals clacked on the linoleum floor and she ignored the anxious and confused looks that were given her. Clearly, the bystanders thought, the good doctor had spent too much time with the crazies of Gotham and now she was becoming one!

She walked over to the small metal stand that stood near the door of the commissioner's office and picked up the coffee pot that rested there and poured herself a cup. She took a sip and winced at the bitter flavor and proceeded to add a good helping of sugar and powdered cream to the brew. Boy, if she had a car she could get out of this dump and get some real coffee. She stood there and sipped her drink, watching the crazed chaos of police officers and citizens speeding about trying to regain the order back in their lives. Again she admired the Joker for his ingenuity and resourcefulness. All this done by some cheep explosives and a remote control! A sigh escaped her lips as she thought of her new dream boy penned up like an animal.

For a while she strolled about the desk filled room and eventually found herself outside the doors that led to the interrogation rooms. She stopped for a moment and glanced into the small window of one of the doors and gazed at the Joker, seated at the metal table and drumming idly on its surface with his fingers. She glanced around to see if the coast was clear and tapped a fingernail on the window. The green haired head popped up and looked towards the door. She smiled at him and winked playfully, glad to see he returned her mischievous grin. She couldn't bear to see him caged up like this. This man deserved to be free, free to teach the citizens of Gotham just how foolish the daily system of their lives was.

With a small wave of her hand she wandered away and stared aimlessly at the brown swirls of her drink. She had to do something. But what? Maybe if she got out for a while she could clear her head and come up with something to get him out in the open and free. But what?

A glass door met her head and provided a satisfactory reminder to the doctor that she should watch where she was going. Muttering a curse, she looked up and around to gather her surroundings; she had met with the glass exit door that led to the parking lot. She pushed against it, but yet again was met with an obstacle. With a huff of contempt towards all life and to the men who designed doors, she proceeded to pull open the door and make her escape to the parking lot.

She looked around the parking lot and before taking a shuddering breath to steady herself. Her reverie, however, was soon cut short by a black BMW speeding into the parking lot and screeching to a stop a few feet in front of her. A tall brunette exited the car and strode towards the entrance. Harleen looked her over and took particular note of the diamond cat pendant that rested on her neck.

Harleen watched the graceful woman walk into the police station and grinned gleefully as her transportation problem seemed to solve itself. Stepping around the hood of the car she took note of the paper advertisement that served for a temporary license plate. With another glance around, Harleen stepped into the drivers seat and popped open the glove compartment. Yes! Harleen's hand closed around the valet key and moved to put it in the ignition.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" The good doctor glanced up in surprise at the owner of the vehicle who seemed to magically materialize out of nowhere. "Um," Harleen bit her lip and stepped out of the car, placing the key in her pocket, "I always wondered what it was like on the inside of a BMW…" She glanced up into the woman's green eyes.

"I see," the woman's eyes flicked up at something above them, perhaps searching for something, and then down at her again. "Well, you had your fun. Now get going," she stepped into the car and drove away.

Harleen cursed her run of bad luck and reached for the key in her pocket, but it wasn't there.

Courtesy of the G.A. named Clive.


	14. Chapter 14

Finally, the flow of prisoners through the police station had thinned to a trickle; only a few remained.

His eyelids scraping open and closed like sandpaper, Drake paused to watch the rising sun through a window. The night fog that rolled in and out of Gotham like an airborne sea was burned away, leaving only the bright skyline.

Soon enough, he could drive home and crawl into bed. Perhaps catch a few hours of sleep before he had to return to work, answer the phone calls, get back to his appointments. He'd dismissed most of the other doctors to do the same; they weren't needed here anymore.

Most of the rattling holding cells were now silent, empty of their captives. All of the most dangerous prisoners—Zsasz, the Scarecrow, and the other celebrities of the underworld—were gone. Well, all but one. The Joker remained. They wanted to move him last, to minimize interactions with prisoners and civilians. Although his interview with the madman had been cut short, Drake had heard about the Joker's sadistic power of persuasion. It was just another perplexing piece of this human puzzle.

He turned away from the golden-lit window and fell into the knot of officers and officials heading towards the meeting room for the 6 a.m. debrief they'd agreed to at the beginning of all this. However, before he could send so much as a nod of acknowledgment in Commissioner Gordon's direction, a familiar face caught his eye.

"Drake!"

Shaking his head in disbelief, he straightened reflexively and watched her brush through the crowd. Gotham had been on the verge of collapse only seven hours ago but—of course—she looked as if she had been preparing in front of the mirror for hours.

"Selina! What are you doing here?"

She brushed off his protests with a firm, breathless kiss. For an instant, Drake worried about what his recent diet of coffee and secondhand cigarette smoke had done to his breath—but that concern along with the others, was soon brushed away.

Embracing him only long enough to get the attention of the entire station, she pulled back and grinned wickedly, eyes glinting like leaves in summer.

"Had to know what you were up to," she murmured, thumbing off her smeared lipstick.

"And _who_," Gordon cut in, looking annoyed, "Who the hell is this?"

"My girlfriend," Drake said, suddenly unable to take his eyes off his feet. "Selina Kyle, meet Commissioner Gordon."

"Charmed." Undeterred by the commissioner's stony glare, she extended her white hand with a dancer's grace. Gordon shook it briefly, then gestured to the others to follow him into the conference room. Drake and Selina were left in the now-empty corridor.

"How'd you know I was here?" Drake asked, still puzzled. "—_Why _are you here?"

"I just knew," Selina shrugged. "I was worried about you, baby." She tried to move in for another kiss; it was all he could to lean away in time for her mouth to just brush his cheek. Her expression was blithe and charmingly innocent—typical of a naïve daughter of Gotham's elite. She appeared completely unaware of what rules she was breaking; Drake knew he had to put his foot down and send her home, but it was somehow difficult to tell off a girl who was capable of that face.

"You're going to have to leave," he said finally, pushing out the words.

She pursed her full lips in appealing frustration. "But—I never see you. I miss you. I see you on the news these days more than I see you in person."

"I miss you too," Drake blurted, feeling like a gawky teenager. "Selina, I miss you a lot. But I have to wrap this up. Um, we're still on for dinner Friday?"

"I guess." She toyed with the cat pendant around her long neck. She'd done the same thing, that time on the yacht (had they been there for the Laemmle gala?), right before he had— Dammit, he had to get her out of her before she became more of a distraction than she already was.

"Go on." He turned her around and gave her a playful shove, the lustrous cashmere of her black sweater soft between his fingers.

Still sullen, she gave him a baleful glare over her shoulder as she left. He watched her long legs carry her out of the station and into the night.

He already felt a pang of guilt, for almost giving in to her pouts and poses, as well as for brusquely dismissing her. Sometimes, it was hard to see who was leading whom around. Three months' worth of dating, and he still couldn't tell.

"Dr. Connelly?"

He turned to see a freckle-faced Asylum intern poking his head out of the conference room.

"Um," the intern squeaked, "You can come on in now."

Drake nodded and squeezed himself in through the cracked door, joining the huddle of people standing near the back of the crowded room.

"—It's almost over," Gordon was saying, examining the audience over his steel-framed glasses. "We've proven ourselves worthy of protecting this city; let's not lose ourselves now. We only have a few hours more of this. Isn't that right, Dr. Connelly?"

Drake realized all eyes had turned to him. Unsure of other man's intent, he nodded and swallowed before speaking.

"Right, Commissioner. You've all done an admirable job. In the course of a night, we've restored nearly all of the city's worst offenders to their places in Blackgate Penitentiary and Arkham Asylum. Every one of you has left your beds and families to help Gotham out in her time of need, cooperating with strangers and encountering dangerous criminals. By my estimation, we've only two or three hours to go, at most. So let's keep up the good work and get this night over with."

Scattered, unexpected applause met his words. Drake managed a close-lipped smile, surprised by the response. The meeting's attendees slowly filed out, moving to their various stations for the final crunch.

* * *

Chapter 14 by **Blodeuedd**. Up next is **Sparta's Ghost**!


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